A little annoyed but trying not to show it, Pedro handed over his US passport. “Is your bar open? If I have to wait, at least I can have a drink.”
The clerk nodded, smiling slightly. “Of course, Sir. If you’d like to take a seat anywhere in the foyer, we can take your order and I’ll inform you when you can go up.”
Pedro agreed, sitting down and ordering a whiskey as he took in his surroundings. When the drink came, he drank it quickly and ordered another one. A couple of hours – and a few drinks – later, the concierge made eye contact with Pedro, holding up a room key before handing it over to a porter.
“This way, Sir,” the porter – a short, squat man – announced, before leading Pedro to the elevator and up to the second floor. Upon entering the room, the porter showed him around, then stood hovering for a tip.
Pedro nodded approvingly, slipping the porter a note before saying goodbye and walking into the bathroom. There was a mirror over the sink and he paused to study his reflection before brushing his hair back behind each ear.
Pedro had already planned out his day. He'd made certain contacts in London and he was aware that he was known by British Intelligence – as far as the British knew, Pedro was working for the C.I.A., which could be confirmed by the Bureau. Pedro had managed to get the Americans thinking that he was there to investigate bad bankers who had left the States, which worked well; the British didn’t want to get involved in what Pedro was doing, and that was fine by him.
He was expecting his files and documents to arrive soon, and once that had happened, he could get on with things. After a quick lunch, he called the embassy and asked if he could attend the meeting taking place there later that day. Pedro knew that they were more than likely recording the call, so as usual he chose his words carefully and kept the conversation brief. "Listen, I can be there in twenty minutes." He was keen to make progress with his work in the UK, and with his contacts already established, there was just the matter of attending a few meetings. He had to answer to the American Embassy before he knew how far he could go.
He was deep in thought on his way to the embassy, so much in fact that he didn’t hear when the taxi driver said, "Guv’nor, we’re here." The man had to repeat the words and cough loudly just to get Pedro’s attention.
As he stepped out of the cab, Pedro noticed police everywhere, something he didn’t understand – why was security so tight? He strolled in with a buoyant air of anticipation, but as soon as he arrived he was stopped in his tracks. First he had to walk through the X-ray scanner and report to reception before being ushered down the corridor to sign in. There was an armed security guard on the door, with another guard sitting behind the desk opposite. He held up his hand, pointed up wards and said abruptly, "Please go up the stairs and turn right."
Pedro followed the orders, and upstairs he was greeted by another man who was sitting behind a desk. He continued down a long hall with ugly grey-coloured walls and linoleum floors and was finally met by David Jacob. He wasn't a tall man – only coming up to Pedro's shoulder – but he held himself as though he were much taller then Pedro. His skin was weathered and darkly tanned, his greeting enthusiastic. The hand he offered was rough from work. "Pedro, thank you for coming by at such short notice."
Pedro returned the smile as he shook his hand. "My pleasure, Sir."
David then directed him into a room – the floor made of rubber, the walls and ceiling covered in grey acoustic foam – and Pedro was asked to stand in the middle for twenty seconds while he was scanned. On the ceiling was a sealed glass light that came on and beamed a green flickering glow onto him, before moving in a circular motion around the room.
"All clear,” said David, “and can you step this way." He went into another room, this one a soundproofed office with no windows – just a desk and two chairs. David motioned for Pedro to take a seat and asked if he wanted coffee.
"Please."
David went over to the desk and busied himself with the coffee machine as he spoke. "Pedro, we were informed by Washington late last night regarding your arrival, and we just wanted to let you know that if we can be of any help to you, don’t hesitate to contact me directly. These are my contact details." He handed him a business card before going back to focusing on the coffee.
"Thank you. I’m sure I’ll need your help some time; things can get rather unpredictable."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I got to keep an eye on people, and who knows? It can all go wrong."
David nodded, keen to ask about relations between the US and Britain. "I suppose you share information?" he asked as he handed over a small cup of coffee to his guest.
"There are certain things I'm not at liberty to discuss.” Pedro's face showed no emotion. "I wish I could say more, but I can't."
David nodded again. It was clear that he wanted to move the conversation in a more serious direction. "Pedro, may I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"From one man to another."
Pedro looked at him across the table for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. The innuendo was simple.
"We are both gentlemen. We do not lie to each other," continued David.
Pedro inclined his head respectfully, signalling that he understood.
"Do you trust your informers?"
Pedro was in the process of sipping his coffee, which was a good thing because it helped conceal the grin on his face. He quickly put on his poker face as he placed his cup down and said, "That's an interesting question." Pedro wasn't sure what to say, but he wanted to see where this was headed.
"I noticed that you chase a lot of bankers, so are your informers reliable?"
Pedro gave a noncommittal nod. "Yes, it's difficult to know who to trust these days," he added vaguely.
"Pedro, I suppose there are a lot of untrustworthy people in that industry, but after all, a bank is a bank."
Pedro nodded. "I often find it necessary to remind myself of a point that seems obvious, but that is often misunderstood by so many, and that is that the World Bank is not really the World Bank at all: it is rather a US bank, and as you know, occasionally there's – how shall I put it – a certain degree of corruption."
"Absolutely.” David pointed his cup at Pedro and extended his forefinger. "My point exactly.” He stood. “Here is your file with the details of who you’re interested in. Just keep us informed. Is there anything else?"
"No," answered Pedro. He didn't want to create any issues, and there were undoubtedly a few. Pedro wasn't willing to share, but he thought that in order to help improve his relationship with David, he should at least offer him something. He opened his briefcase and laid a plain file folder on the desk. "Have a look."
David sat back down, putting his reading glasses on before lifting the file's cover. His eyes widened with disbelief. He leaned back in the chair and scratched his scarred left cheek. "Oh, my God."
"What is it?"
"’Who’ . . . ‘Who’ is it you mean." David shook his head. "This is someone I have not seen for a long time, but he is very dangerous."
"I heard he'd retired a few years ago. This is his address, he now lives outside Manhattan."
David nodded. "Tom MacGregor. Men like that only know one thing. They don't retire . . . they just simply die one day. So what's he doing in my home town?"
"That is a very good question," Pedro replied.
"They call him The Dog,” continued David. “He started off in the trade, pulling off scams. The guy is bad and there are warrants out on him, for murder, extortion, you name it. Some of our people said he’d disappeared a long time ago.” He paused, staring into his own coffee cup for a moment, lost in thought. “Thank you for that, and once again, Pedro, feel free to contact this office any time."
Pedro stood up and walked over to the door, assuming the meeting was over.
David had been born with a great sense of awareness, and he knew he had to take that awareness to another level. “Wait,”
he said.
Pedro shrugged. He knew the question was unavoidable.
"So how did you find out so much about Tom MacGregor? We've tried for years." David stared at him, willing him to answer.
Pedro reached for the door handle, and, with a satisfied smile, asked, "Anything else?"
He didn't argue the point with David.
Chapter 19
John lay on his back on the sagging mattress and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts unfocused. Used to being up much earlier, he was yawning and rubbing at his tired eyes. This was a very stressful time; Sonia was not talking much to him at the moment, and it was taking its toll. They lay side by side, close enough to touch, but not touching. He could hear her breathing. He was surprised to realize that she was wearing some kind of fragrance; she must have put it on before getting into bed.
"Just in case you’re getting any ideas, don’t," she said after a minute.
He paused for a moment before getting up, and as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he made no attempt to deceive himself: the dark black eyes staring back at him were the look of a worried man.
Just then the telephone buzzed – a recorded message from Pedro to remind him that it had been a few weeks now and that he was still waiting for them to meet. John dropped the receiver onto the chair, feeling more exhausted than ever.
Sonia suspected there was something wrong with John: he was acting very weird, being all quiet and nervous. Meanwhile, John was just avoiding her questions, clearly hoping she would stop asking him things. She wasn’t helping matters, though, forever asking him what was wrong and what was worrying him. It was a vicious circle.
Sonia curled her lip, glaring at him. John knew what she thought: that he was probably having an affair. How wrong she was.
He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and made a decision – to sort things out with Sonia, one way or another.
“Look, I’m sorry, Sonia,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”
"That's because you drink too much coffee," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. After a few minutes she smiled and nodded. "You caught me off guard last night," she admitted with a grin meant to put him at ease. She looked up at him wide-eyed, her mouth open to say sorry, but the word wouldn’t come out. Getting fidgety now, she tucked her hair behind her ears before meeting John’s gaze. He had a pleading look in his eyes. "You have to understand, John: you got to be honest."
John had to swallow, though he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
She licked her lips, taking a moment to pull herself together while John stared back at her. He slowly lifted his brows as the morning light dawned on his eyes, and Sonia’s hands tightened in her lap. She stared at them for a long time before turning her whole body to face him and resting her face on his hands. He took a deep breath to steady himself and then held her tight for a moment.
He was still afraid that he might fall back into depression again, especially as he had to hide these dark secrets from Sonia, but the last thing John wanted was to upset her. How could he tell her what was going on?
There were times when he could understand why people who were backed into a corner just gave in, and this was definitely one of those times. In fact, this was the way he would feel every single day as long as he was carrying this horrible secret. But what could he do?
He knew this wasn’t going to be a good day, and at the moment, John had bigger and more immediate problems to deal with; he would have to put off debating his salvation for another day. Right now he was more focused on finding out how Pedro would react to what he had to say – Pedro had opened a small office in town, and it appeared that his new line of work was beginning to keep him busy.
John jumped into his car and drove quickly, mulling over what he was going to say to him. When he got to the location, he parked near the entrance to the car park, beyond which sat an old brick house with advertised office space.
Without stopping to think – or talk himself out of it, maybe – he walked upstairs and banged hard on the door to the office, feeling quite angry about the whole situation. The insane grins and double thumbs-ups between both of them were, as far as he was concerned, now history.
He opened the door to find Pedro sitting at his desk, and surprising himself, John shouted, "Why don’t you just fucking leave me alone?"
Pedro grinned, a smile devoid of humour. "Sorry, John, but you know very well I can’t do that; I know what you’ve done."
"What do you mean?" John asked, his bravado slipping.
Pedro raised his eyebrows in surprise, then started laughing – something that confused John even more. "Just do what I say," Pedro said. "I suppose you’ll be telling me next that it was all my fault!" he added sarcastically.
John nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet.
"What?" he shouted. "It was your fault. John, I would like us to be friends and get along. But first, tell me what happened to the parcel?"
"You mean when you set me up, and I was attacked?"
"That’s right, and you killed the guy. Remember?"
"No. That was self-defence, and you know it."
"So why did you run away, John?"
"My hands might have been bloody but my conscience is clean. I had done the job you asked me to do." He tightened his jaw, forcing himself to control his anger. Pedro wanted him to react, but John was in control here, not him.
"I say it again, John. I want to be your friend."
John cocked his head, as a vein started to throb in his left temple. "Listen to me, Mr Clever: so where’s the evidence? What evidence do you have that I killed someone?" He balled up his fist at his side; he would have loved to punch the little shit right in the face.
"Rock solid, I got all I need," Pedro said, his face pale but his voice firm. "There’s no disputing it, and you don’t seem to be taking this seriously."
"Oh, I’m taking this deadly seriously, I can assure you," John said.
"I'm disappointed in you; I thought we understood each other. Tell me where the parcel is, John."
The way John pursed his lips told Pedro that he wasn't following his line of reasoning, and he shook his head abruptly as if to clear his thoughts from what was being said.
"Well," Pedro prompted him to reply, "I know you have it."
"I would say it’s pretty obvious," John said, folding his arms across his chest and letting his weight settle on one leg. "The fact is, I don’t know. I must have dropped it when I was running. I hid behind the rubbish bin, so I could have dropped it there. Just be careful about what conclusion you draw."
"Conclusion? What conclusion?" Pedro stood up, stepping forward to within striking distance of John. "I think you should be careful with the tone you use with me,” he said. He knew John was lying. "I’ll tell you what you did." Pedro shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You took it and put it somewhere, and now I want it returned." He took a step back and looked at him expectantly.
John's face hardened, and within a second he had closed the distance between them, before prodding Pedro in the chest with his right index finger. "Why don't you calm down and stop being such a dick for a second? What kind of asshole do you think I am? I’m telling you again: I don't have your parcel.”
Naturally, Pedro didn't like the reply, and he stared at John with narrowed eyes, more than a hint of menace in them. He fished out a Marlboro, lit up, and let out a discontent sigh.
John's lips twitched a little. "I'm not lying."
John could tell by Pedro’s expression that he was deeply concerned about something: he easily picked up on the tone of hesitancy in his voice. John kept his eyes on him, fidgeting with his key ring as he asked, "What's bothering you?"
"What's not bothering me would be a more accurate question,” replied Pedro. “For now the parcel can wait; we'll come back to that conversation another time."
Pedro was trying to read a document at the same t
ime as talking, and he wiped a drop of sweat from his face with his forearm as he looked down at the paper.
John still felt uneasy. He thought back to the first time he’d laid eyes on Pedro: his gut had told him everything he needed to know. He didn't like him that much then, and he sure as hell didn't trust him now. Pedro was complex, calculating, and he always had that sly look in his eyes, like he was constantly planning how to get one over on you.
He stared at John for a few moments, until he could no longer hide the trembling of his lips or the way his eyes were stinging. He shook his head almost frantically, covering his mouth with a shaking hand before seeming to calm himself down. He looked John directly in the eyes and said, "Enough of this nonsense. What is done is done." He patted John on the shoulder. His tone was honeyed, meant to smooth over the situation, but it was having the opposite effect on John.
Tilting his head as though he had something to prove, Pedro mumbled, “Look, John, I’m going to look after you and you’re going to look after me, OK?"
John found himself stepping closer as his voice lowered to an angry hiss. "Is this the part where you tell me you're a changed man?"
Pedro ignored his question. "Both of us are going on a journey together, and I’ll be watching you all the time to make sure you don’t try to double-cross me. I am here for a reason, so don’t undermine me; I know what I’m doing and I am always one step ahead. Remember, you killed that man, and, as far as I know, the police are still looking for the killer. The best thing now is for you to just take it easy, and sign on with my agency." He actually had the nerve to smile as he added, "You're such a hard man, John."
John looked at Pedro with a blank expression, working his lips to try and frame his next words. Eventually, he nodded his head, sucking in a deep breath. “For God’s sake!” he cried. “Are you even listening to me? Leave me alone!" He was breathing heavily now, beginning to lose his grip on the conversation.
"What is it you want from me?" John asked. He knew the question made it seem like he was considering giving in, so he countered it with harshness as he spat out, "I won't waste your time."
The Assassin's Keeper Page 16